By Any Other Name
by Onedergirl
Summary: This wasn’t what he’d signed up for, he tells himself for probably the thousandth time in the last twelve hours. It’s become his mantra, and he’s even put a beat to the thing, a bit of a melody in his head that has kept him company and somewhat calm.


What's in a name? That which we call a rose  
By any other name would smell as sweet.  
- Juliet, _Romeo and Juliet, .1-2_

***

A loud scream rents the air and the tall, thin young man brooding by the window, staring out at the rising sun jumps right off the window seat, very nearly out of his skin. He glances around a bit like a caged animal and winces slightly as the scream draws out even longer, vibrating in the very marrow of his bones, only now hearing the sounds of murmuring accompanying the screaming.

He draws a last, shaky drag from his cigarette then stubs it out in the ashtray he's had to empty at least ten times since this whole ordeal began the day before. He hasn't slept in over 24 hours—hasn't eaten, either-—and probably looks a fright. Thankfully there's no mirror about—he shudders to think what his hair must look like (tousled, probably, sticking up and curling at the ends) or his clothes (tie askew, jacket off, cufflinks missing, shirtsleeves rolled up past the elbow) or the shadow on his face from not shaving, not to mention the dark circles under his eyes from hours of pacing and worrying.

This wasn't what he'd signed up for, he tells himself for probably the thousandth time in the last twelve hours. It's become his mantra, and he's even put a beat to the thing, a bit of a melody in his head that has kept him company and (somewhat) calm.

The screams finally—mercifully—abate somewhat, grow quieter and trail off, though still press on his awareness. He grabs another cigarette from his case, fumbles the lighter a few times—hissing as he singes his fingertips—before lighting it and taking a few deep pulls, trying to calm down. He glances out the window yet again, watching the sun rise fully above the horizon, amazed at how far he'd come in such a short amount of time.

If he's honest with himself, it has all rather blindsided him. One minute he'd been going along the road of life on his own, neither needing nor wanting a travelling companion, and the next thing he knew he'd been dazzled by soft dark hair, intelligent blue eyes, pale flawless skin, and ruby red lips. And that had just been a first glance, when he was (admittedly) not at his best. The feeling of missing a step, a swooping sensation somewhere in his stomach, had only gotten stronger as they got to know one another better. He'd never imagined that he could know someone so well in his whole life, in fact, and it had very nearly bowled him over when he realized he was in love, that while he'd thought his life had been perfectly fine and happy, he'd actually been missing out on quite a lot.

A quiet squeak pulls him out of his reverie, snaps his attention towards the door leading to the hallway and he quickly stubs out his cigarette and runs his hands over his face in an effort to get his bearings.

'Mr. Wooster?'

He glances helplessly at his valet and makes a half-hearted gesture towards his clothes. 'I look a fright, I'll bet?'

The valet gives a slight nod and makes his way over towards his master, straightening his tie, a look of understanding flashing in his eyes and a bit of a smile stealing over his lips as he steps back. 'Under the circumstances . . . '

'Right.' He feels himself relax, if only slightly, glad for the routine, but the worries swarming the inside of his stomach refuse to let up yet and he glances once again at his man. 'I don't suppose you'd check for me? See if it's all right to go in?' Maybe not the strongest or firmest thing he could say, his voice slightly smaller than normal, but he supposes that most men would act the same in his position.

'Of course, sir,' the valet answers, his lips doing their best not to tug upward into a smile as he begins to head towards the door leading into the bedroom. But before he's taken much more than a step, his master's hand on his arm stops him.

'Thank you.'

'Certainly, sir.' The valet smiles briefly and makes his way towards the door, but before he reaches it a woman bustles out, wiping her hands on a towel. She's short, nearly 60, and perhaps hard around the edges from a few of life's disappointments, but she takes one look at the young man and very nearly shakes her head. Despite his best efforts, he still looks a mess, has clearly been up all night, and it warms her heart deep down, though she does her best not to show it. Not many men would have waited up all night, after all.

She nods at him. 'You can go in now, sir.'

The tall young man glances between the two of them, his fingers absently picking at a stray thread on his rather rumpled shirt. After a moment he nods--not as resolutely as Woosters of old, maybe, but it's enough for the situation at hand—and strides towards the door, where he stops dead in his tracks, unable to look away from the sight before him.

Some part of his mind—a very small part—is able to be objective and what he sees isn't beautiful. At least, not in the strictest sense. Her skin is blotchy, patches of red and white and colours in between all over her face, her forehead shiny, beads of sweat sliding down her temple and her cheek mingling with tears, her eyes an angry red from the crying, and her mouth and her forehead have deeper lines than the day before, still pulled down in pain and exhaustion. Her dark hair is wild, plastered to her head in odd places and even as he's cataloguing it all, he realizes he probably looks much the same—or, at least, as close as he can.

But those thoughts vanish in a moment, and he suddenly sees the scene in a brand new light when he looks into her eyes. There's pain there, certainly, and exhaustion, of course, but they're perhaps the shiniest, flashiest jewels he's ever seen, and priceless, too. She looks triumphant, elated, and he feels his heart speed up, jump into his throat as he glances in her arms, his world suddenly narrowing to the tiny baby burrowing close to its mother. He takes a small step closer then inexplicably halts, a slight fear—fear of what, he's not exactly sure—assailing him out of nowhere.

She chuckles quietly, throaty and low, filled with happiness and seems to understand his hesitation, even if he doesn't. 'Don't be afraid, Eddie. Come and meet your son.'

Edward Wooster jerks back slightly, the words hitting him as though they carry a physical force, but then he walks forward—nothing could stop him now, he thinks--until he reaches her bedside, sits carefully next to her and looks down into bright blue eyes, a face that instantly reminds him of his wife. 'My son,' he says the words softly, disbelief and happiness dancing a spirited jig through his body as he glances down at the child. He reaches a tentative finger down, traces along the boy's tiny fist and arm, watches in wonder as he leans into his mother's warmth.

'Bertram,' she supplies helpfully.

'Bertram,' he echoes dreamily, watching his son—his son! He can't seem to get enough of thinking those words—curl a fist into his mouth and close his eyes. He smiles hugely, unable to watch enough, it seems, but then the name filters into his brain and he snaps his eyes up to look at his wife. 'Bertram?' he asks her in disbelief, and very nearly adds, _'are you mad, to saddle the child with a name like Bertram?'_ but it's a very near thing. After all, she did do most of the work, he reminds himself. It wouldn't exactly be sporting—nor, he realizes, terribly bright—to call her mad.

'Yes,' she replies, turning her attention back to the boy, softly stroking the small bald head, 'I promised Daddy I would name our first son after—'

'But, Anne, dear, surely we can come up with a better name?' He sends her a winning smile, laying on the charm. 'How about Edward? Or George?'

'And how, _Edward darling_, are those names any better than Bertram?'

He winces at the baleful look she sends him, the smile sliding off his face, and he finds himself tugging slightly at his collar as he's wont to do when her hackles are up. 'It's just that they're traditional names for us Woosters, dear, and I rather told Father that we might, perhaps, consider naming our son—provided we had one, of course . . . erm . . . after . . . him . . . ' he mumbles as he trails off, knowing from the experience of two years of marriage and three years of acquaintance that he's already lost, that he will—either sooner or later—let her have her way, because he's come to understand that he loves her too much to fight with her. If his son—his son! It gives him such a thrill every time—must be named Bertram because Annie says so, then Bertram it is.

He sighs then smiles ruefully at her, holds his hands up in mock surrender. 'You win. Bertram it is.'

She beams at him, and he thinks—dazedly, careful not to jostle Bertram as he leans in for a kiss—that the boy is going to need a nickname, just to help him get over the burden of having a name like Bertram.

And on the heels of that revelation, another, one that he'd almost forgotten about in all the emotions of the moment, a promise he made to himself the day before when he won a fortune on a horse. 'Dear, if you get to choose his first name, then I think it's only fair I get to choose his middle name.'

She smiles at him and stifles a yawn, magnanimous in victory and exhaustion. 'And what would you have his middle name be?'

'Wilberforce.'

'Wilberforce?' It's her turn now to raise an eyebrow in disbelief, one that says, _'and you objected to __**Bertram**__?'_ Instead she says, 'Why on earth would you want to give him a name like that?'

He smiles impishly at her, making him look like a naughty choir boy, or perhaps some sort of cherub caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 'You remember how I went to the races yesterday?' She raises her eyebrow again, a sort of look on her face that says, _'as if I could forget_,' but he continues undaunted. 'Well, you see, there was this long shot called Wilberforce and I put nearly everything I had on him and sent a little prayer to heaven that if the horse paid off, I'd find a way to work the name in, somehow. And what do you think happened?'

She sighs and, in spite of wanting to be angry at him, chuckles and asks ironically, 'It won?'

He beams. 'Naturally. And big, too. So big, in fact, that I plan to take us on holiday when Bertie here—'

'Bertie?'

'Well, Bertram's a difficult name for a boy to learn when he's first starting out, you know. Wouldn't want to overburden the boy.'

She shakes her head but says nothing, gesturing for him to continue.

'So I figure, since I promised . . . You know how important it is to me to keep a promise, the Code and all . . ' he trails off, still grinning impishly and, try as she might, she can't refuse him.

'Oh, all right, Eddie, but promise me you won't ever _call_ him that.'

'Only if you promise to let me call him Bertie instead of Bertram.'

'You drive a hard bargain, sir,' she begins, but her stern words are completely undermined by the huge smile on her face and in her eyes and they both know it.

'I hope not too hard,' he answers her quietly, leaning in and kissing her cheek.

'Never,' she smiles, a huge yawn taking them both by surprise. Edward reaches an arm around her, strokes her head. 'Get some sleep, dear. You'll need your energy to keep up with young Bertie, I think.'

'If he's anything like his father . . . ' she begins, amusement colouring her words.

'If he's anything like his mother, you mean,' he replies, kissing her forehead.

She murmurs in contentment, already half asleep, and Edward leans against the headboard, a bright grin on his face, all that matters in the world in the crook of his arm. This, he thinks. This is what he'd signed up for.


End file.
